


Assistance Required

by Soft_Light



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Bisexual John, Demisexual Sherlock, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Doctor John Watson, For Science!, Hurt Sherlock, John Watson Takes Care of Sherlock Holmes, John gives a helping hand, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Being an Idiot, Sherlock Holmes Has No Boundaries, Sherlock is celibate, Sherlock likes John's bum, Sherlock likes his hair played with, Sherlock takes Viagra, Sleepy Cuddles, Sleepy Sherlock, Virgin Sherlock, and i don't care, this fic is a mess of tropes, until now
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-12
Updated: 2018-01-08
Packaged: 2018-12-14 15:27:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11786019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Soft_Light/pseuds/Soft_Light
Summary: Sherlock takes Viagra for an experiment. You can probably guess a lot of what happens next.





	1. Assistance Required

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Kind of Blue](https://archiveofourown.org/works/763552) by [emmagrant01](https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmagrant01/pseuds/emmagrant01). 



> Hat tip to Gem_Gem for her fic "Rigid", and especially to emmagrant01 for "Kind of Blue," which are the two "Sherlock Ingests Viagra" fics I've read (there surprisingly aren't that many?). Didn't feel right not acknowledging their part in inspiring me to do my own take on this very silly trope. I'm sure if you've read "Kind of Blue" in particular, you'll notice a couple of elements I've flat out stolen, but the fic diverges quite a bit after the initial scenario. Think of it like a remix? I dunno. I just had it in my head and wanted it out.
> 
> This fic takes place sometime during season two, and continues on into a magical fairyland of imagination where Sherlock never pretends to kill himself to capture Moriarty. It would just really ruin the fluffy vibe I've got going on here. (You could probably also make it work post-season four if you squinted real hard.)
> 
> Hasn't been betaed or Brit-picked, so sorry about an errors! Feel free to comment or message me and I'll correct if something is really bothering you.

John received the text at 3:35 PM on a Thursday, just as he was about to head in to see a patient.

 

_Come quickly. Medical emergency. -SH_

 

John rolled his eyes. The last time Sherlock had a _medical emergency_ , he’d smacked his head into a kitchen cabinet and wouldn’t leave John alone until John had come home from work to examine Sherlock’s skull personally. He’d felt unable to refuse that one, just on the off chance the git had actually concussed himself.

 

“Must protect the transport, John.”

 

“Next time, just go to hospital.”

 

“Nonsense. I have you. Think, John.”

 

John had no response to this that he thought might stick, so he said nothing.

 

John had only _really_ fallen for the medical emergency text ploy once, the very first time. He’d only been living with Sherlock for about a month. He’d rushed home in a panic, his heart bounding in his chest, his thoughts racing with possible ways Sherlock might have injured himself (and no doubt it was self-inflicted; they weren’t on a case, and the man was brilliant, but in his hyperfocused state, things Sherlock deemed irrelevant went neglected and unobserved). Had he sliced off a finger? Worse, a limb? Had he set fire to the kitchen? Well, he’d done that before; John had seen it. Maybe he was badly burned.

 

Only, he’d come home to find Sherlock sitting on the couch with a dish towel wrapped around his hand, calm as anything. He’d proffered said hand wordlessly to John, who found underneath a single, long but shallow cut on Sherlock’s palm. It had bled pretty badly at first, judging by the amount of blood on the towel, but the bleeding had clearly stopped.

 

“This isn’t an emergency, Sherlock. You’re fine,” he’d said, relieved. “It doesn’t even need stitches. Just put some ointment on, and wrap it up with gauze.”

 

“It’s my dominant hand. I needed to make sure.”

 

John sighed, rubbing his hands over his eyes.

 

“You are exasperated with me,” said Sherlock, cocking his head.

 

“Yes, Sherlock. I am.”

 

“Why.”

 

“Because I thought you were actually hurt and you needed me.”

 

“I _did_ need you,” said Sherlock, plainly feeling this was a sufficient and obvious explanation.

 

“No, you didn’t. But the two patients I canceled on _did_.”

 

John patted Sherlock’s hand in a clinical manner that conveyed ‘this consultation is now over, glad you’re okay’, stood up and headed for the door.

 

“Don’t text me again unless it’s a real emergency.”

 

And to Sherlock’s credit, he had tried, but his definitions of urgent and John’s couldn’t seem to line up. He was like a child, wanting what he wanted when he wanted it, and what he wanted was John to fix the things he broke. John, his own personal medical doctor comfort blanket, or perhaps safety net? But of course, John gave in more than not, because he was weak, and a sucker for people who thought they needed him, even if they didn’t really. If he was being honest with himself, he hated the idea of Sherlock in pain, any kind of pain. Even if that pain was almost entirely in his head. So if there weren’t patients counting on him, he did sometimes oblige Sherlock, enabling his melodrama.

 

Today, though, John wasn’t giving in. Not unless Sherlock was lying on their kitchen floor, dying. Anything else could wait. Burnt hands, stubbed toes, hot wax strips applied to arms that Sherlock was afraid to rip off himself (all in the name of science!) . . . none of it.

 

John realized he’d been staring blankly at his phone for several minutes when a second text came through.

 

_John. -SH_

 

John sighed. Sherlock was taking the understated approach this time.

 

_I’m busy. Whatever it is can wait until I get home in three hours._

 

_I don’t think it can. I’m concerned about . . . permanent damage. -SH_

 

John blinked. He sent back a quick reply.

 

_What did you do?_

 

The response didn’t arrive right away. John almost thought Sherlock wasn’t going to answer him at all, and briefly entertained the thought that something might actually be wrong with him, but before he could decide what to do about that, a picture text popped up.

 

“Jesus Christ, Sherlock!” John hissed, unable to told back his reaction. By instinct, he shielded the phone from prying eyes, even though no one else was in the room.

 

It was a close-up of an erect penis. Presumably Sherlock’s. _Jesus._

 

_Sherlock, what the hell._

 

_I can’t get it to go away. -SH_

 

A pause.

 

_I took Viagra. It was an experiment. -SH_

 

John stared at the screen in front of him, at a loss for the moment. Their last few texts had almost pushed the picture out of frame. John’s eyes studiously avoided looking directly at it again. He began typing furiously.

 

_Just, have a wank! It’s not a hard problem to solve. Pun very much intended. Can I go back to work now?_

 

_Tried that. Didn’t help. The tumescence persists. -SH_

 

Another pause.

 

_I’m in some discomfort. -SH_

 

Understatement again. Bloody hell. Probably there was something Sherlock wasn’t telling him. John thought for a moment before he texted back.

 

_How much did you take, Sherlock?_

 

_150 milligrams. -SH_

 

_That’s triple the recommended dosage, though I suppose it won’t necessarily hurt you. I’m guessing you already knew that and did it anyway._

 

_How long has the reaction persisted?_

 

Little dots on the screen.

 

_Four hours, seven minutes. Approximately. I’ve been a bit distracted. Not certain of the accuracy. - SH_

 

John sighed. He wasn’t going to see any more patients today.

 

\---

 

Sherlock was sitting on the couch when John opened the door to their flat, though today he was something less than calm. Even from ten feet away, John could see that Sherlock’s face and neck were flushed. He was reclined onto the cushions, but he wasn’t relaxed. His body language indicated discomfort rather than pleasure. He was in an open dressing gown, his boxers were slid down his thighs to give just enough room for his erection to have escaped, and the bottom of his white t-shirt was pushed up his belly, as if to clear a zone around the offending organ, which, _Jesus_ , jutted up from his lap in defiance. His right hand lay next to his mobile. John guessed he hadn’t moved in some time. He’d probably been trying to avoid further stimulation. John walked over to the couch and sat down beside him.

 

“Can you help me make it go away?” asked Sherlock.

 

Of course when Sherlock did have a real medical emergency, it would be something of this nature. Of course it would. Uncomfortable for all involved. Embarrassing. But John was a doctor, and he could care for his patients, even the ones with conditions they (or he) found _embarrassing_. He was good at this part, and he knew it. When he spoke, his voice was calm and reassuring.

 

“I’m going to take your vitals, Sherlock, okay? Just keep breathing, in and out. There you go.”

 

Sherlock closed his eyes.

 

“Try to remain calm. You’re going to be all right.”

 

It wasn’t Sherlock’s penis Sherlock should be worried about doing damage to. It was his heart. Erections, the whole human sexual response, they weren’t meant to be sustained over long periods of time, and with the drugs in his system . . . it was unlikely, but there was a definite chance if Sherlock didn’t relax and get some, er, _relief_ , he could give himself a heart attack.

 

John’s fingers found the pulse point on Sherlock’s neck and he looked at his watch to get a reading. Sherlock’s heartbeat thumped feverishly against his fingers. His skin was hot and slightly damp. John kept counting. Heart rate elevated, but not critical yet, though Sherlock was clearly in distress. He didn’t need to take Sherlock’s pulse to know that, though it would be a handy gauge in the next few hours.

 

“Are you dizzy?” he asked, not removing his fingers, watching for a change.

 

“A little.”

 

“When did that start?”

 

“About an hour ago.”

 

“What about nausea?”

 

“No.”

 

“Visual impairment?”

 

“No.”

 

“Headache?”

 

“No.”

 

“Okay, good.” John removed his fingers from Sherlock’s neck.

 

“Sherlock, I need you to open your eyes for me. That’s good,” he said as Sherlock complied. His eyes were wide and a little panicked as they met John’s, the pupils dilated, the whites a little bloodshot. John was momentarily thrown. It was unsettling to see Sherlock like this, so out of control. No, out of control wasn’t exactly right. He seemed . . . helpless?

 

John moved to place a hand on the brow over Sherlock’s right eye, and brought a penlight up to shine in his pupil. Reactive and normal.

 

As he brought both hands back to his side, the elbow of his jacket brushed across just the place Sherlock didn’t seem to want contact. Sherlock’s reaction was immediate. His hips lifted up off the couch, and he groaned, but in pain, not pleasure. Blood rushed to John’s face out of embarrassment, but Sherlock’s obviously genuine reaction also made John want to help him very badly. He reached out with his right hand and took Sherlock’s left, which was currently bunched at his side, fisting at his pants.

 

“Sherlock, listen to me,” he said, Sherlock’s hand firm in his own. “Are you listening?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“As far as I can tell, you’re not having an adverse reaction to the medication. That’s very good. Dizziness can sometimes be a side effect, but I’m rather inclined to think that right now it’s being caused by panic. You’re panicking, Sherlock, hyperventilating. You know that, right?”

 

A nod.

 

“Okay. If you can, I want you to keep breathing, but take your breaths as slow as you can. Concentrate on filling and emptying your lungs slowly but steadily. Smell the soup, blow on the soup. Can you do that?”

 

Another nod.

 

His fingers found Sherlock’s pulse again. “Just keep breathing, mate,” said John. “I’ve got you. This is not a huge problem and you’re going to be okay.”

 

Sherlock breathed slowly and steadily for about five minutes, and his pulse, though still elevated, had ceased that feverish beating that had made John so nervous.

 

“Good, perfect. Open your eyes and talk to me, Sherlock.”

 

Sherlock opened his eyes.

 

“Talk to you about what? The weather?”

 

Cheeky. Good sign.

 

“Yes, you cock. The weather.”

 

“Don’t say ‘cock’. It can hear you,” said Sherlock, nodding down toward his wayward penis. Unthinking, John looked down as well. His face suffused with heat again as he took in the erect state of said appendage, which was now lying parallel to Sherlock’s flat and seriously pale belly. John reminded himself to think clinically. It was so engorged, it looked almost purple. Talk about blue balls. He shuddered imperceptibly, this time in sympathy.

 

“It’s all you from here, Sherlock. I know you said you tried having a wank, but you’re going to try again, and it’s not going to be a big deal.”

 

“I can’t do that, John. I’ve already tried. It . . . didn’t go well.”

 

“The alternative is that we bundle you up and take you to A&E. I can guarantee you won’t like the way they’re going to help you out.”

 

Sherlock was nonplussed.

 

“A needle, Sherlock. A big needle in your penis.”

 

“No,” said Sherlock immediately. “Not doing that.”

 

“Thought so. Now, have at it.” John moved to get up. “I’ll be in the other room. I’ll need to take your vitals when you’re finished.”

 

But before John could go, Sherlock’s hand snaked out and caught his wrist, pulling him back down.

 

“No, John, I . . . I _can’t_.” Sherlock’s eyes seemed calm and clear as he said this, still attempting to maintain control over his breathing, but John could see he wasn’t out of the woods just yet. Enough stimulus could push him right back in to the panic attack.

 

“Before, when I tried, it was too much and I had to stop. It wasn’t working. It didn’t feel good.”

 

A pause.

 

“The more it didn’t work—” said Sherlock.

 

“That’s when you started panicking.”

 

“Yes.”

 

He looked at John with his still-dilated eyes, with that expression he sometimes got while waiting for John to catch up, and that’s when John had an uncomfortable realization.

 

“Sherlock,” he said carefully, “when you asked me to help you make it go away . . .”

 

Sherlock seemed relieved.

 

“Yes, John, a hand-job was my original intention. I didn’t think I’d have to spell it out for you. But then you went into doctor mode, and—”

 

“I’m not giving you a hand-job, Sherlock,” interrupted John. “That is something that is absolutely not going to happen.”

 

Sherlock sighed as if he were the one being put-upon.

 

“This isn’t sex, John. This is a medical procedure for your patient who is in great distress. If it doesn’t work quickly, I will allow you to take me to A&E.”

 

“What, really? You would go to hospital?”

 

“Well, _no_ , John, not really. Because this is going to work and I won’t have to. But I’m sure you find it comforting to know that in the great unlikelihood I am wrong, there is a back-up plan.”

 

The bloody bastard. The bloody bastard whose bravado was currently thinly layered over an uncomfortable level of obvious vulnerability. And really, the needle, it was a very _large_ needle . . .

 

“Why do you think my hand will do it for you, when your own wouldn’t? Presumably, your hand is more familiar with the, er, _terrain_.”

 

Even asking this question, John knew he had already given in. To giving his flatmate a hand-job. His brilliant, as far as he’d known before, mostly asexual flatmate. But perhaps that assumption needed re-evaluation. Regardless, Sherlock looked up at him with a calmness that belied a confidence not in himself, but in what he knew John was about to do for him.

 

“I trust you, John,” he said.

 

God dammit.

 

“Right,” said John. “Stay here.”

 

He wasn’t going to even bother asking if Sherlock had condoms and lube. The lube he knew he’d need for sure; any way to make things smoother on Sherlock’s overstimulated bottom half. In fact, perhaps a condom, too, to blunt sensation? But no, didn’t want to drag this out too long, after what, almost five hours now? Perhaps it wouldn’t be the most enjoyable orgasm, but it would hopefully get the job done.

 

 _Just think clinically, Watson. Stimulus, release, the erection will subside. Check vitals every half hour for three hours after? Yes, three should do. He should be fine by then._ John’s mind had already fast-forwarded past the act. It seemed easier that way, to think of it as something he’d already done.

 

As if in a fugue, he made it up to his room, retrieved his lube and was back sitting next to the prone Sherlock, who once again had his eyes closed. John’s trip upstairs had seemed to take forever, and yet no time at all. Jesus, this was going to be weird. He realized before he started that he was going to need a better angle. He supposed he could keep sitting next to Sherlock on the couch, but he would have to move much closer, and that seemed a step beyond. He needed to maintain a professional distance. Instead, he pulled up an ottoman and placed it in between Sherlock’s already spread knees.

 

“All right, Sherlock. You can keep your eyes closed, if you want—

 

( _please keep your eyes closed_ )

 

“I’m just going to warm up the lube. I’ll warn you before I touch you. Okay? I need you to acknowledge me.”

 

“Yes,” said Sherlock, who was now taking slow, deep breaths once again. Probably a smart idea. John didn’t even know if Sherlock had ever had a hand-job, or any sexual contact with another human being.

 

( _please let this not be the first_ )

 

But this wasn’t sex, right? This was a friend, a doctor friend, helping out another friend who required some assistance. John was nothing if not excellent at providing assistance.

 

John opened the lid on the lube and squirted a generous amount onto his palm. He made sure to rub his hands together to warm it up. The last thing Sherlock needed on his overheated prick

 

( _oh god_ )

 

was a cold front.

 

“I’m going to touch you now,” said John. The reaction was small, but he didn’t think he was imagining Sherlock tensing up ever-so-slightly in expectation.

 

Leaning forward on the ottoman, his hand closed over Sherlock’s erection.

 

 _That_ reaction was not small. Sherlock let out a long groan before John’s grip had even closed, and this time John couldn’t tell if it was a groan of pain or pleasure, or both. Sherlock’s cock was pulsing with heat in his hand

 

( _oh god oh god oh god_ )

 

On instinct, he tightened his grip to accustom Sherlock to the sensation. He waited for Sherlock’s hips to lower back down to the cushion, and then he began to move. His fist stroked up and down the length of Sherlock’s erection, a tight slide of hot flesh and capable hand. Sherlock’s hips remained where they were this time, but his mouth opened in a silent, relaxed ‘oh’. One arm migrated to drape over his head, so that the crook of his elbow was covering his eyes; the other hand drifted to his stomach and fisted the hem of his t-shirt, making it ride even higher up his firm stomach. A dot of a belly button revealed itself.

 

That was when John realized he’d made two mistakes. First, he would have been better off next to Sherlock on the couch, because at least then his vision would have been limited to select body parts at a time. As it was, he was now being treated to the whole visual spectacle of Sherlock in the throes of uncontrollable pleasure (and John could now see that it was indeed pleasure), and that his hand was the instrument of that pleasure. The second mistake? Agreeing to this at all.

 

An unmistakable coil of desire was unfurling low in John’s belly, running a line straight to his own cock, sparking nerve endings on random bits of his skin as the rest of his body got the message. With every stroke of John’s hand, Sherlock reacted, his breath now coming in heavy gasps, his head tilted to the side in what John could only think of as “wild abandon.” He was close now.

 

Though he’d never seen Sherlock orgasm before, 

 

( _ohhhhh god_ )

 

he knew it would happen soon. Sherlock was non-verbal with pleasure, but his body was beginning to go taut again, his hips rising ever so slightly with the building tension that comes before a release. A lightning bolt ran straight from John’s gut to his dick at the sight. Sherlock's cock thickened in his fist.

 

“Jesus Christ, Sherlock,” he said, his voice low and husky.

 

Seemingly in response, Sherlock shifted his arm up so that the crook was now resting on top of his head, and slowly and with obvious effort, opened his eyes.

 

“John—” he managed, before immediately closing them again as his orgasm overtook him.

 

John kept stroking him through it, warm semen falling on his hand and shooting up to Sherlock’s chest and belly. He gradually tapered off the squeezes and pulls as Sherlock’s now-relaxed body began the come down from its five-hour high. John released Sherlock’s prick with one final, gentle pull, and Sherlock collapsed bonelessly back into the couch.

 

John stared at his own hand for an unknown period of time, his cock hard in his pants. (He might have had to worry about embarrassing himself, but Sherlock had been right. The whole thing had taken less than two minutes.)

 

John stood up slowly, adjusting himself as he went, and headed to the kitchen where he rinsed his hands, and soaked a cloth in the warm, flowing water. He squeezed out the excess and headed back to Sherlock, who was plainly fast asleep on the sofa. The sight was oddly comforting. John wiped the warm washcloth over Sherlock’s chest and belly, and then braved the lower district as well. He’d probably be out for hours, and it was no good waking up covered in dried come.

 

Oh, he should probably—  


He pulled Sherlock’s pants back up his hips, and his vest back down. For good measure, he also pulled the sides of Sherlock’s dressing gown closed so that it was encasing him in warm, soft material. When he was done with that, he reached up to check Sherlock’s pulse. His fingers found a steadily beating, normal heart, fast sinking into the slower rhythms of sleep.

 

He sighed and left to take care of his own medical emergency.


	2. A Pillow Required

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's little medical handjob may have flipped a switch in Sherlock's brain . . .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No sexytimes quite yet. Sorry! First I wanted cuddles.

Up in his room, John acted without conscious thought.

 

His bedroom door barely shut, he leaned back against it. Down went the zip, out came the cock, five rough strokes, and a whiteness behind his eyes as the swiftness of his orgasm took him by surprise. He didn’t bother trying to muffle his cries, and when his vision came back, he found himself seated on the floor of his bedroom, the hard bone of his coccyx digging into the unforgiving wood. He’d missed his clothing and hands, but made rather a mess on the floor. At least it hadn’t hit the rug.

 

After cleaning up a bit and making himself presentable

 

( _for who?_ )

 

John went down to see about some food. And some tea. He bloody well needed a nice hot cuppa.

 

John had always been an empathetic person, but this was ridiculous. He searched for the teabags, thinking defiant thoughts. Anyone would have gone to pieces with such a blatantly sexual . . . spectacle, right there in front of them. Anyone! And he’d had the spectacle’s penis in his hand. Front row seats. He’d be worried if he _hadn’t_ been turned on, honestly.

 

The combination of that intense wank (oxytocin, his lovely friend), and the familiarity of puttering around the kitchen worked nicely to soothe his agitation, and soon he found himself in a strangely pleasant mood, considering. His hands and face felt all warm, and the flat seemed very bright. He caught sight of Sherlock’s prone form as he passed by the kitchen door, and a wave of affection for the melodramatic git washed over him. It was a nice feeling, all in all, so he didn’t push it away.

 

He’d learned over the past year just to let these sorts of things happen to him and not give them meaning, otherwise living with Sherlock, being friends with Sherlock, would long ago have driven him mad. Sherlock didn’t mean things the way other people meant them, and it would be foolish to behave as if he did. John was nothing if not a pragmatist.

 

John stopped under the doorway. He’d never seen Sherlock this unconscious before. He’d seen him asleep, of course; they were flatmates. But Sherlock, even asleep, wasn’t a restful thing to behold. There was always the sense that he could wake at any moment. Sherlock slept politely, as something he deigned to do only because it was required of him. Sleep was a place Sherlock visited and left as soon as he could, like an uncomfortable dinner with distant relatives and you’re out the door as soon as the pudding is done.

 

But now, he was dead to the world.

 

John knew it was paranoia, but he couldn’t help checking Sherlock’s pulse one more time. Steady and slow.

 

“Still alive,” he muttered, not sure why he was speaking aloud.

 

He watched as Sherlock’s breathing moved his chest up and down, his arm still thrown back above his head, the rest of him sunk artfully into the sofa cushions.

 

( _his face as he came, John’s name on his lips_ )

 

John shook his head. The memory passed.

 

I should feel weirder about this, he thought. And then went to silence the kettle.

 

Later, his sandwich and his cuppa in his hands, he contemplated his sleeping flatmate; he contemplated the view from his chair to the TV. He also contemplated the inevitable crick in his neck from craning to see the TV from his chair. He made the decision.

 

And if he woke up Himself, who bloody well cared. John wanted crap telly and tea, and he wanted the sofa, so on the sofa he sat.

 

His weight didn’t do much to shift Sherlock from his languid pose near the other end.

 

( _did he pose like that on purpose? no, he didn’t, and that made it worse_ )

 

John turned on the TV and tucked in, not bothering to keep quiet or limit his movements or keep the volume down. Halfway through his sandwich, Sherlock finally moved from the position he’d held for—John checked his watch—fifty-six minutes now. John watched Sherlock now instead of the telly, still munching contentedly on his food. Sherlock was obviously out of his temporary coma. He stretched languidly, like a great big cat. Still asleep then, and shuffling to get comfortable. His feet pushed out on the floor, toes unfurling, his arms heavy at his sides, then immediately contracted back, beginning to fall sideways seemingly in slow motion, presumably to lay on the sofa with his back to the telly.

 

And he was heading straight for John.

 

“Sherlock!” shouted John.

 

He was able to move quickly enough to save his food being squashed into a pillow for Sherlock’s head, but not quickly enough for his brain to do anything about moving himself. His mad flatmate, whom he’d jerked off not an hour before—lest we forget!— was now lying with his tousled head on John’s lap. Curling himself around John’s middle like a comma. With sex hair.

 

A large, deep sigh from the direction of his lap, and Sherlock stilled again.

 

John’s mouth opened and closed as he tried to react to this unprecedented behavior.

 

He was being _cuddled_.

 

By _Sherlock_.

 

John looked down at Sherlock’s face, lax in obvious genuine sleep. Sherlock was close enough that John could feel his warm breath heating the fabric of John’s jumper where it lay over his belly. In and out. In and out. Warm, then cool. Warm, then cool. He looked . . . peaceful.

 

For a time (he wasn’t sure how long as his brain seemed to have gone offline) he just sat there, his hands full of food and suspended over Sherlock’s head. When he had come back to himself after this indeterminate period of befuddlement, there didn’t actually seem to be much of a choice in the matter. With a put upon sigh, he set his tea and his plate on the side table within arm’s reach, picked his remaining sandwich half up off the plate, and set to finishing his meal with his flatmate snoozing away on his legs.

 

Serve him right if he gets crumbs in his hair, he thought, and leaned back into the sofa. Might as well get comfy.

 

Anyway, John was rather partial to a good cuddle, and he was rather partial to his flatmate, as well. No one could deny that, certainly not the man said flatmate was currently using as furniture.

 

“Oh, bloody hell,” said John, and clicked over to _QI_.

 

Twenty minutes later, John was giggling to himself over the show when he found himself marveling at how nice Sherlock’s hair felt, and that’s when he realized the fingers of his left hand were tangled in Sherlock’s curls.

 

“Right,” said John. But he didn’t move his hand.

Sherlock was still fast asleep, and _QI_ was suddenly much less interesting than what his hand had been up to without his permission.

 

John had that feeling again, that he should be feeling weird about this, only he didn’t. It felt nice to have Sherlock snuggled around him like a living blanket, his body heavy with sleep. It felt nice to allow himself the human contact. And so he did.

 

Deliberately now, but slowly and relaxed, John ran his fingers through Sherlock’s hair. He allowed his fingernails to gently scratch his flatmate’s scalp in one direction, and then firmer pressure with just the pads of his fingers on the return journey. His hand cupped the back of Sherlock’s skull, right where it began to curve into his neck, and he allowed his fingers to just do what they wanted. He ended up curling and uncurling them through the warm nest of Sherlock’s hair, over and over. He lost time doing it. It was soothing.

 

Sherlock seemed to be enjoying it as well. He was making soft little contented noises as John played with his hair, and he’d somehow managed to scoot his head even closer to John’s stomach, so that his face was practically buried in John’s jumper.

 

“Whoops,” said John, picking a crumb out of Sherlock’s fringe, and then pausing to take Sherlock’s pulse. Still fine.

 

“John,” mumbled Sherlock, nudging John’s belly with his forehead, exactly like an overgrown cat asking for a pet. He clearly had woken up sometime during the hair fondling incident and was not pleased John’s ministrations had ceased. When John didn’t react immediately (he was currently frozen in a little bit of a panic at being caught out), Sherlock (eyes still closed) found John’s hand with his own and placed it back on the crown of Sherlock’s head. “Mmm,” hummed Sherlock, making John’s belly vibrate with his voice.

 

Sherlock released his hand. Well, then. Might as well do this properly.

 

And so John set about feeling up Sherlock’s head.

 

Methodically, John combed his fingers through Sherlock’s hair bit by bit until he’d handled every inch. Down to the nape of his neck, up to his crown, around the delicate skin of his ears, smoothing his fingers around his hairline, John indulged himself. Every now and then he'd pick out a curl and twist it around his index finger. He did this for ages. And because apparently tonight was the night all kinds of boundaries were being crossed, when he desired to touch Sherlock further, he just did it. His fingers skimmed down to Sherlock’s face where they proceeded to trace the contours of Sherlock’s eyebrows, his closed eyelids and the space above his nose that John always forgot the medical term for. His thumb smoothed over Sherlock’s cheekbones, marveling at how smooth Sherlock’s skin was, like a warm alabaster statue come to life. John’s hand tickled its way down to Sherlock’s jaw, down the nape of his neck again (so warm), then back up to his tragus (that little triangle of cartilage in front of his ear).

 

During all of this, Sherlock’s face was slack with contentment, his breathing slow and steady. He evidently didn’t mind his flatmate touching him so intimately. But then, they wouldn’t be here now if Sherlock hadn’t propositioned John not three hours before for a medical emergency hand job, which had been preceded by, well, a dick pic. Anyone else exhibiting the same behaviors, and John would think they were coming on to him. But this was Sherlock. Sherlock didn’t do sex or emotional attachments. Sherlock didn’t understand social boundaries like other people did. Sherlock just did what he wanted, and only sometimes regretted it later (usually this was preceded by John becoming upset, and Sherlock regretting John's anger with him rather than the actual thing that caused the anger in the first place).

 

Sherlock’s hand was currently up the back of John’s vest.

 

When had he put that there? John tried to remember, and couldn’t. Sherlock’s hand was large and sturdy, and it felt nice against the bare skin of John’s lower back. The fingers were mimicking the movements John had made earlier on Sherlock’s scalp, curling and uncurling. He supposed this was Sherlock’s way of returning the favor, of petting him back.

 

John felt a flicker of disappointment when he realized Sherlock’s position prevented him from being able to touch Sherlock’s lips. Probably for the best, that. John wasn’t sure he would be able to prevent this from becoming a sexual encounter rather than remaining a comforting one if he had the opportunity to touch those lips. Lips, if he was being honest with himself, he’d not been able to stop himself from thinking about in a rude fashion on several occasions. Lips that hours before had uttered John’s name while the rest of Sherlock was occupied having an orgasm.

 

While John was contemplating his inability to access Sherlock’s lips, Sherlock once again grabbed John’s hand and put it back on the top of his head, this time holding it there until John did what he wanted, which was to pet him like a sweet little cuddly kitten. But Sherlock was emphatically not a kitten. John resumed running his fingers through Sherlock’s curls anyway, pressing rhythmically on his skull, scratching with his nails.

 

Sherlock slipped his hand down the back of John’s trousers.

 

John let out an undignified squeak, and in his surprise, attempted a mini-leap off the sofa. Sherlock grunted and pushed him back down, his hand never leaving John’s trousers. He burrowed his head back into John’s lap to get comfortable again, his hand still gently resting under the waistband of John’s pants. Aside from the location, it felt oddly non-sexual. John found his hand pulling at Sherlock’s hair just a little too tight, and he released his grip. He soothed his hand over Sherlock’s head in apology. He tried to act casual.

 

“Sherlock," said John, "why are you holding my bum?”

 

Sherlock did a sort of shrug, or as close as he could get while laying down.

“Is nice,” he mumbled, not bothering to push back his sleepiness in order to articulate his sentences properly.

 

It was obvious to John that Sherlock was determined to use John as some sort of self-soother until his exhaustion passed, whether or not that was something that John actually wanted.

 

Once again, John did nothing. He did not remove Sherlock’s hand from his bum. He did not manhandle Sherlock up from his lap, or remove his hand from Sherlock’s curly head. He did not get up off the sofa and retire to his room, ending this strange, strange day.

 

Instead, John let Sherlock stay.

 

John was beginning to realize that his little medical handjob may have changed something subtle in the fine balancing act of his and Sherlock’s friendship. Something that he hadn’t been aware of consciously, but which he was becoming steadily more aware of as the minutes creeped on, and he not only allowed his flatmate, his friend, to keep his hand down John’s trousers while he affectionately and enthusiastically played with said flatmate’s hair, but found himself wanting the encounter to continue.

 

Finally, after several episodes of QI, with a glance at the clock, John moved to get up. He had a shift at the clinic early in the morning and really didn’t fancy spending the night on the sofa, just because Sherlock was feeling clingy after his ordeal. Sherlock may be able to regularly spend the night on the sofa, but John's back wouldn’t be able to take it.

 

Sherlock had slipped back into real sleep over an hour before, so John moved carefully. First he reached around and extricated Sherlock's limp hand from around his arse cheek, then he cradled Sherlock’s head in both his hands, lifting him gently as he slipped out from under his flatmate’s weight. Soon he was up and Sherlock’s head was laid safely on the sofa, his breathing deep and easy. John stretched automatically, and his spine popped audibly. He’d been sitting in the same position for too long.

 

Just for the hell of it, he took Sherlock’s pulse one last time. It thumped against his skin reassuringly, and John went upstairs to fall into bed. If his last thought before drifting off was of the warmth of Sherlock’s skin under his palm, nobody else would know.


	3. Reciprocation Required

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just some smut, no biggie. And the smut expanded while writing, so whoops, there will actually be four chapters.

John floated back into consciousness while it was still dark outside. The sounds of London at night reached him through the open window. A part of him wondered why he had awoken. A light breeze made him shiver, and he snuggled into the warmth that cocooned him. He sighed in contentment before stiffening in surprise. A surge of adrenaline chased away his lingering sleepiness.

 

Sherlock was in his bed, cuddling him.  


He was being cuddled forcibly by his flatmate.

 

Again.

 

Sherlock was wrapped around him from head to toe. His head was tucked under John’s jaw, his face pressed into the curve of John’s neck. John could feel every breath Sherlock took, the rise and fall of his chest, which was firmly snugged against John’s, and he had insinuated one of his long legs in between John’s as well. One of his hands was tucked under the pillow below his head, but his other was clasped around the small of John’s back, dangerously close to John’s arse.

 

When had Sherlock crawled into his bed? And how had he done it without waking John?

 

( _Why had he done it?_ )

 

John sighed and thought about moving, waking Sherlock and kicking him out of bed. But when he started cataloguing not just Sherlock’s position, but his own, he was forced to reckon with the inescapable fact that while his conscious mind seemed oblivious, his subconscious was very much enjoying this newly affectionate Sherlock.

 

John’s body had known Sherlock was snuggled up so close. It had responded instinctively to Sherlock’s wrapping himself around John by wrapping him right back. He had moved into Sherlock’s embrace, welcoming Sherlock’s arms and legs, and responding in kind with his own. And judging by his earlier state of contentment, he’d been quite enjoying himself.

 

But there was only so much one could allow their flatmate to get away with. There were some boundaries you just shouldn’t cross.

 

“Sherlock,” said John, placing his hand on Sherlock’s back and rubbing vigorously. “Sherlock, wake up.”

 

Sherlock groaned like the undead.

 

“Wake up,” said John. “Sherlock.”

 

He ceased jostling Sherlock’s back and brought his hand up to Sherlock’s sleepy head, running his hand through his hair.

 

Finally, Sherlock betrayed signs of lucidity, but he didn’t completely untangle himself from John, only shifted so that they were facing one another, his head lying on John’s pillow.

 

“John? What’s wrong?” he asked in an undeniably cute, sleepy voice that made John want to strangle him as much as cuddle him closer. He didn’t even wait for an answer before continuing on in that same sleepy voice. “I was dreaming about an octopus. It was trying to crawl under my door and ruin my experiment.”

 

John knew he shouldn’t engage, but he couldn’t help himself.

 

“What experiment was that?” asked John. His hand was still nestled in Sherlock’s curls.

 

“I think I was trying to find out who murdered the octopus’s grandmother, and he was becoming belligerent; Said I was doing it all wrong and questioning my methods.” He yawned. “I didn’t know octopuses could be scientists. It’s becoming a bit fuzzy, though, and I can’t really remember.”

 

“Mmm,” John hummed, marveling at his friend’s curious mind, his strange imagination.

 

“John, do you know that male octopuses have their reproductive organs in one of their arms? The male can detach it and hand it to the female for fertilization. Very convenient for her, I’m sure, very painful and traumatizing for him. They’re very smart, you know, octopuses.”

 

“Isn’t it _octopi_?”

 

Sherlock huffed, and John could tell he was rolling his eyes. “No, John.”

 

“Sherlock, why are you telling me about an octopus’s penis?” asked John, pausing slightly, not really expecting an answer. He was undeniably aware of the proximity of his own penis to Sherlock’s thigh muscles. “Why are you in my bed?”

 

Sherlock didn’t say anything, only closed his eyes.

 

“Sherlock?”

 

“John, you’re ruining the moment.”

 

“We’re having a moment?”

 

“Yes, do keep up.”

 

“I’m afraid you lost me a while back, mate. This cuddling thing we’re doing, this is going to be a regular thing now?” John asked, unable to resist brushing a stray curl off of Sherlock’s forehead. Sherlock nuzzled into his hand.

 

He mumbled something too softly for John to hear. He seemed to be intent on using both John’s hand and John’s pillow as a shield.

 

“Sherlock?”

 

“I _said_ , I have recently discovered that I enjoy it when you touch me.”  


“Oh,” said John, his face flushing at the idea of Sherlock enjoying something so carnal, so human. “Recently?”

 

“As of yesterday afternoon, when you brought me to orgasm with your hand.”

 

As if John needed reminding. His penis gave a soft twitch of awareness upon hearing the word ‘orgasm’ fall from Sherlock’s lips.

 

“You don’t like it when people touch you,” said John.

 

“No,” said Sherlock. “I never have. People are so dull, John. I have usually found being touched extremely unpleasant.”

 

“You let Mrs. Hudson touch you. She kissed you on the top of your head the other day when she brought you those scones. You didn’t even flinch.”

 

“That’s different,” said Sherlock. “Hudders and I understand one another. I allow her to mother me, and she doesn’t evict us for putting bullets in her wall.”

 

“But you _like_ when I touch you,” said John, scooting his head a smidge closer to Sherlock’s.

 

“Yes,” breathed Sherlock.

 

“Flatmates, friends, they don’t touch one another like we’re touching each other now.”

 

“I know that,” said Sherlock.

 

“You should leave,” said John.

 

John could feel the warm puffs of Sherlock’s breath against his lips as he spoke.

 

“Do you want me to?”

 

John took longer than he would have liked to answer.

 

“ . . . no.”

 

The fingers of John’s left hand grasped Sherlock’s curls, and he swore the low contented rumble coming from Sherlock sounded like a purr. He could feel the steady pulse of Sherlock’s heartbeat from where his wrist lay along the long column of Sherlock’s neck.

 

Neither one of them said anything for what felt like ages. John didn’t know where Sherlock’s head was at, but he was feeling curiously at peace with the world, cocooned in his brilliant flatmate’s arms.

 

At last, Sherlock broke the silence.

 

“You like being touched. You crave human affection.”

 

“Yeah, I do,” said John.

 

“I would imagine,” said Sherlock, pausing as if to consider his words, “it works the other way as well.”

 

“Hmm?” said John.

 

“I don’t like touching other people, but I might like touching you.”

 

John’s heart immediately set up a glorious tattoo. He felt himself begin to harden inside his pants, and worried Sherlock would feel it.

 

“John?”

 

He was unbearably close now. Their noses were almost touching. John closed his eyes and leaned his forehead until it rested against Sherlock’s. He sighed.

 

“Can I touch you, John?” asked Sherlock, his voice a low rumble in John’s ear. John knew he wasn’t asking about a little platonic petting. He thought briefly of the possibilities, of what Sherlock might do if he said no, or if he said yes. He thought about what he wanted. It was easier to make the decision than he thought it would be, here in the quiet space of night they’d carved out for themselves.

 

“All right.”

 

His eyes were still closed. The tentative thread of intimacy they’d been building between them since John had woken up thrummed and stretched.

 

First, Sherlock cupped his face. He ran his thumbs over John’s cheeks and down to his lips, but he did not kiss him. He lingered on John’s lips for quite some time, until John thought he would go mad with it. The nerves there were tingly with overstimulation, and he wanted Sherlock’s hands elsewhere.

 

As if reading his mind, Sherlock skimmed down John’s ribs until he reached John’s waist. He rucked up John’s t-shirt, and with both hands on the small of John’s back, pulled him close. An unearthly growl rumbled up from Sherlock’s diaphragm, and John thought it was entirely too smug of a growl.

 

But Sherlock wasn’t done manhandling him. Slowly, and carefully, he ran his fingers down from John’s back and began tracing the edge of John’s pants. He was wearing a pair of loose-fitting boxers, and it didn’t take much pressure for Sherlock’s fingers to slide under the elastic band, which they did, over and over, teasing him. John shuddered and his entire body broke out in goose pimples, his cock now doing much more than twitching.

Sherlock hummed, pleased by John’s reaction, then slid the pants down John’s bum until they rested on his upper thighs. John shivered again with anticipation, unsure what Sherlock was going to do next.

 

Sherlock reached back around and placed both of his large hands on John’s arse cheeks and squeezed. John couldn’t help it; he moaned. Sherlock only squeezed harder.

 

John felt his prick come to full attention. Sherlock felt it too. His hands left John’s arse so they could pull his pants the rest of the way off his legs. They got caught on his foot and John kicked out in frustration, hearing the pants hit the floor several feet away.

 

John wanted very badly at this point to reach out and touch Sherlock in return, but something made him stop. Sherlock hadn’t asked him if they could have sex, just for permission to touch him. This was as much an experiment for the genius as it was a sexual encounter. John could almost feel Sherlock weighing his reactions, asking himself, “Do I like this? What about this?” John hoped there would be time later for him to touch Sherlock in return, but for now he would wait. Instead, he clasped his hands together and wedged them underneath his pillow. Hands off.

 

Meanwhile, Sherlock was repositioning their lower halves. Back went Sherlock’s thigh in between John’s legs, this time Sherlock deliberately pushed it up into John’s groin, pleasantly compressing John’s balls. His left hand snaked under John’s waist, coming to rest underneath the curve of John’s hip, and yes, cupping the side of John’s arse once again. It seemed Sherlock had a definite affinity for John’s arse.

 

But Sherlock’s right hand was the main attraction. After he had run it in agonizing slowness up from the gently bent curve of John’s knee, up over his hip, back up John’s ribs, and down to his slightly convex belly, he finally paused at John’s pubic hair, as if afraid to continue.

 

John’s cock lay thick between them, pulsing with every new detour Sherlock’s roving hand made, eager for him to just bloody touch him already, where both of them knew he wanted to. John flexed his hips in encouragement, but didn’t dare do more.

 

His eyes were still closed. He wished to god he could see Sherlock’s face, but knew instinctively that his closed eyes were allowing Sherlock a measure of freedom to explore, just as it had done for John earlier on the sofa.

 

At last, Sherlock moved, combing his fingers through the wiry gray and blonde curls that surrounded John’s cock, and then came to rest there. He gripped the base tentatively, still feeling it out, not yet giving pleasure. John found it impossible to remain still during this tortuous exploration. His hips bucked, the motion causing his erection to slide up through Sherlock’s open hand, and along his wrist before he could manage to still himself again.

  
“Sherlock . . . “ croaked John, his desperate longing to be touched evident in his voice.

 

In response, Sherlock made a fist around John’s aching prick and pulled.

 

“Fuck,” said John, the relief and accompanying pleasure was nearly overwhelming.

 

It was the strangest hand job John had ever received.

 

Sherlock wanked him with a single-minded focus he really should have expected. Every touch was a calculated move, every response of John’s carefully observed. His grip was firm when John expected gentle, and gentle when he expected firm. He spent a good portion of time just feeling John’s bits, as if memorizing them. And he was silent. Most of John’s previous partners liked to make noise, even if it was a bit put on. Noises were sexy, in John’s experience. Just hearing them does something to your brain. Dirty talk, moaning, groaning, sighing, sucking, endearments, encouragements . . . he’d pretty much heard it all.

 

But he heard nothing from Sherlock. Only the wet slide of his hand on John’s prick, the swoosh of skin on skin. And his own heavy breathing.

 

With his eyes still closed, and the silence, all he had to focus on were the sensations, which were quickly overwhelming him.

 

Sherlock seemed to have realized that the time for exploration was over now, as his hand was firmly and steadily moving. Every third stroke he ran his thumb over the head of John’s cock, brushing the sensitive underside.

 

John was breathing heavily, and his head was pressing hard into his pillow in an effort not to cry out, or spend himself too quickly. His hips twitched in frustration. Even as Sherlock’s hand stroked him, John wanted more.

 

As if reading his mind, Sherlock stilled, pulled his hand off John’s prick, spat on it and put it back, making a looser fist, but not moving his hand. He leaned his head down and in a low rumble, whispered in John’s ear, “Move”. A full body shudder took John at that moment. Sherlock’s forehead was warm against his own.

 

He swung his leg up Sherlock’s thigh for leverage, and did as he was told. He fucked Sherlock’s fist for all he was worth. Sherlock’s adjusted his grip to just the right pressure as John moved.

 

“Fuck, Sherlock, fuck, fuck, fuck.”

 

Each thrust was punctuated with an expletive, until John lost his words. His balls tightened, and a tight coil of impending release began to swirl down from his abdomen.

 

“Gonna come,” managed John.

 

He swore he felt Sherlock’s lips against his skin, and a rasp of sharply drawn breath. Sherlock tightened his fist just so, and then John was indeed coming. It felt like forever, and it felt like seconds.

 

When he was done spasming into his best friend’s hand, he sank back down into the mattress, warm contentment spreading through his limbs.

 

He opened his eyes to find Sherlock staring at him, an unfamiliar expression on his face. It took John a while to place it, what with the post-orgasmic haze and all, but also because he’d never seen Sherlock express that particular emotion. It was a bit of fascination, yes, but mostly it was surprise.

 

“Well?” asked John.

 

Sherlock didn’t answer John, merely quirked his mouth a little, and lifted his hand to examine it. It was, of course, splattered with John’s semen. Before John could suggest they clean up a little, Sherlock lifted his hand up to his mouth and began licking it clean, his eyes on John’s the whole time.

 

“That’s disgusting,” said John.

 

Sherlock shrugged, still cleaning the spunk off his hand.

 

It was at this point that John realized he was almost completely naked, save for the shirt that was still rucked up to his chest. He pulled it the rest of the way off, and used it to clean up the rest of his mess, most of which had landed on his sheets. When he was done, he threw the shirt onto the floor with his other dirty clothes and pulled the duvet up around him, snuggling in. Sherlock just watched him.

 

“You staying or not?” asked John.

 

“Yes,” said Sherlock, after a moment’s pause.

 

“Then get under here where it’s warm,” said John, lifting up the covers. “Hurry up, now.”

 

Sherlock scooted under the duvet but didn’t move to touch John.

 

“Git,” said John, scooting close to Sherlock. He cupped Sherlock’s face in his hands. “That was bloody brilliant,” he said, placing a soft kiss on Sherlock’s lips. Sherlock’s eyes widened, again with surprise.

 

“Oh,” said John, embarrassed. “Sorry. Should have asked if I could do that.” He went to pull away and settle in for sleep, but Sherlock held him in place.

 

“Do it again,” he said.

 

So John did.


	4. Reciprocation Required, Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well, that certainly took long enough to finish. I apologize if it's rough. I finally had the urge to buckle down and work up to the ending, and I just went with it, rough or not. 
> 
> The boys seem happy enough about it, anyway.
> 
> (Haven't actually finished writing a fic in literally over a decade, so I'm proud of myself regardless. Perhaps I shall write more.)

They kissed until John’s lips tingled.

Sherlock was an eager kissing partner, though clearly inexperienced. His lips were soft and warm, and pliant against John’s own. After the first couple of kisses, which were enthusiastic but sloppy (and ended with teeth clacking together), Sherlock had ceded control to John, and John had willingly taken it. Now, John cupped his friend’s face in the palms of his hands and pulled Sherlock’s bottom lip between his own, scraping it gently with his teeth. He kept the tongue action to a minimum, mostly wanting to acquaint Sherlock to the feeling of another body invading his personal space. 

John was reminded of his thought earlier in the day, wondering whether Sherlock had ever had any kind of previous sexual contact with another human being, and he still had no definitive answer. John had the uncomfortable feeling, having now experienced his kissing technique firsthand, that that afternoon’s hand job had indeed been a first, though surely he’d kissed before? Experimented? Sherlock was one of the most dangerously curious men he knew. He wouldn’t have ignored such a large field of knowledge, would he? 

Sherlock let out a plaintive sigh as John pulled back and opened his eyes. John ran his thumb lightly over Sherlock’s now kiss-swollen lips. His curls were mussed, and he was breathing heavily. It was ridiculously sexy, but John persisted.

“Hey, Sherlock, can you look at me please?” asked John, his voice calm and steady.

Sherlock obliged him, though John could tell he wasn’t pleased by the interruption. His face heated at the thought that he’d done this to Sherlock, made him languid with kisses. Bloody hell, if he’d known all it took to make Sherlock stop talking was a good snog, he’d have done it years ago. But John needed to talk. It was suddenly imperative that they were on the same page. 

“I’m sorry, I need to know,” said John. “I know you don’t like to talk about this sort of thing, but . . . I need to know whether—”

“I’m a virgin,” interrupted Sherlock.

“Well, yeah,” said John, surprised at how forthright he seemed. 

“No, John. I am a virgin, if you are in need of a label, though I confess I find the need to box human behavior into such socially constructed and ultimately meaningless categories rather tedious. The patriarchal obsession with sexual purity is absurd.”

“So . . . you’ve not had sex then. Before tonight, I mean.”

“No.”

“Of any kind.”

Sherlock sighed, this time a little pompously, though John was finding it hard to be annoyed at him while John himself was so thoroughly naked, and Sherlock so warm and close. 

“This is why virginity is such a useless construct, John. When I say that I am a virgin, it could mean anything. I could mean that I’ve never participated in any sort of sexual behavior at all, from masturbation all the way through the spectrum up to penetrative sex . . .”

John’s thoughts tripped a bit as Sherlock articulated the phrase ‘penetrative sex,’ but he didn’t interrupt.

“. . . or I could simply mean that I am by some limited definitions still technically a virgin, because even though I’ve experienced orgasm with another person, or caused another person to orgasm, sexual activity doesn’t count as ‘real sex’ unless someone is being penetrated. Some people believe that, you know. Dull.”

John just stared at him, still stuck on the penetrative sex bit.

“Or my experience level could be at some unidentifiable point in between.”

“In the last 24-hours alone we’ve both given each other handies, so the first one’s definitely off the table,” said John helpfully, unable to silence the giggle he felt rising up in him. He was feeling punch drunk with lust and the unexpected intimacy of Sherlock in his bed, under his duvet.

Sherlock stopped him from descending into a giggling fit with a chaste kiss, and pulled away.

“I assume your inquiry into the state of my sexual purity had an actual objective?” asked Sherlock.

John’s hand caressed the underside of Sherlock’s jaw.

“Somewhere in the last five hours or so, we stopped being just friends and roommates. I’m not going to pretend I didn’t know exactly what you were asking me when you asked if you could touch me. Call it whatever you like, sexual partners, lovers”—Sherlock’s face moued in distaste at the last word—”but there are certain things you do when you’re having sex with someone, particularly someone you care for, and one of those things is respecting your partner’s history and their boundaries. I can’t do that if I don’t know what those boundaries are. Normally, I’d be able to make a good guess, but . . .”

“Yes, I see,” said Sherlock. “You’ve never encountered anyone like me in your many and varied sexual liaisons.”

“Oi!” said John, half-offended. “You calling me a slag?”

“No, I am simply pointing out that, as in most areas of our lives, you have no precedent with which to compare me. It’s one of the reasons you find me so intriguing.”

“Whereas you’ve probably deduced my entire sexual history, probably within an hour of knowing me, but until yesterday, I assumed you just weren’t interested.”

Sherlock was quiet for a moment, and then rolled over onto his back, his eyes focused on the ceiling. He seemed to be trying to figure out what he wanted to say, or perhaps how to say it.

“I have already told you that I don’t like being touched, or touching other people, but that’s not exactly true. In the right context . . . with the right people, sometimes I don’t mind. And you’re right, of course. I was curious. Just not curious enough.” 

“Sorry, the right context?”

Sherlock steepled his fingers under his chin. 

 

“I have been known to enjoy the occasional therapeutic massage.”

John couldn’t help giggling again. 

“John, enough, you’re becoming hysterical. This conversation was your idea. I’d be more than happy to keep having sex with you.”

“So if you were curious, did you ever try?” asked John.

“Several times over the years. All attempts ended in dissatisfaction for both parties. The feelings simply weren’t there on my part.”

“What feelings?” asked John, confused for a moment. What feelings did Sherlock think he was missing? You didn’t need love to have sex. Or even friendship. Or any relationship at all. 

“The sexual ones, John. They weren’t there. All of my partners were objectively attractive, but they did nothing for me besides annoy and frustrate me. Attempting to attain the appropriate levels of sexual arousal was extremely tiresome, and I grew bored quickly.”

“Until you let me touch you.”

“Yes, until you touched me. Imagine my surprise, John, when your touch not only didn’t frustrate or repulse me, but actively added to my pleasure.”

“No one had ever given you a hand job before?”

“Not the right question, John. As ever, you see but do not observe. The variable here is you, not me. The same sexual act, the same recipient, very different results.”

“That’s not exactly a great application of the scientific method, Sherlock. I believe you’re forgetting a variable, a rather sizable one . . .”

“Yes, yes, the Viagra. Not important at all. It’s the context, John! Name a man of our mutual acquaintance. Go on, do it.”

“Mr. Chatterjee.”

“No.”

 

“Lestrade.”

Sherlock paused a fraction before speaking, “No.”

“Anderson.”

Sherlock made a face. “No!”

“What do you mean, no? What are you saying no to?”

“I would not have asked any of them to help me with my problem. I would have opted for the penis needle. And even if I had been so desperate, I’m confident their so-called assistance would have been repellent rather than helpful.”

“What about a lady?”

“Also, no.”

“Right, not your area. So, what are you saying, exactly?”

“I texted you. I trusted you. I wanted you.”

John stared at his mad flatmate, whose hands were still steepled. His creamy, perfect skin was luminous in the pale glow shining in from the street lights. The strong outline of his profile made John want to consume him.

“Yes,” he was now muttering to himself, as if he’d forgotten John was present. “Yes, the sexual feelings must be a natural outgrowth of my affection for you, John, but further experimentation will be necessary.”

John couldn’t help himself at this point. He practically launched himself onto Sherlock. Before the younger man could so much as blink, John had straddled him and pinned his hands above his head. His thighs pressed into Sherlock’s lower ribs.

“John?” said Sherlock, his eyes wide.

John leaned down so that his mouth grazed Sherlock’s ear.

“Yes, Sherlock?”

“I thought you wanted to talk.”

“Yeah, I did,” said John, matter of factly. “Changed my mind. Want to sit on you instead and kiss you all over.” He nipped Sherlock’s earlobe.

“Right, well, not that long of a story as it turns out,” babbled Sherlock, clearly on board with this new plan. “Never wanted to have sex before. Now I do. The end. Your arse is touching my skin, please can I touch it back—oh.”

John had decided that suction cupping his lips to Sherlock’s pulse point was an excellent idea.

“John,” rumbled Sherlock. John could feel the words vibrate his lips. “John, your . . . you just . . . didn’t you?“ He groaned as John increased his suction.

“Good god, man, articulate,” said John, dropping a kiss onto Sherlock’s temple and releasing Sherlock’s hands, which immediately (surprise) gravitated towards John’s bare arse.

“Refractory period?” Sherlock managed, as John moved his greedy lips back to Sherlock’s neck. It suddenly seemed imperative he lay claim to it. Even before he’d acknowledged his physical attraction to Sherlock consciously, that neck had driven him mad. Either it was bare and temptingly elegant or it was wrapped in a scarf or highlighted by Sherlock’s raised coat collar. John was seized with the desire to cover every square inch of it with his lips, no matter how long that took.

“John?” breathed Sherlock, seemingly aware that John had once again become distracted.

“Hmmm,” said John. “Twenty minutes? Doesn’t matter. Don’t need an erection to kiss you all over, make you feel good.” 

John felt Sherlock shudder underneath him, and felt the skin on Sherlock’s arms break into goosepimples. The hands grasping John’s arse tightened their grip.

“I thought . . . I assumed the point was to,” he paused to moan when John gave a particularly fierce suck. He was going to be marked by the end of this for certain. “ . . . to make sure I am no longer a virgin?”

This made John pause. He’d been so caught up in how good it felt to finally give in to his desire for his friend, he’d almost forgotten. Sherlock had never done this before. And as much as John just wanted to pounce on him and take him apart ruthlessly, he didn’t want Sherlock’s first time to be a whirlwind that swept him along. He un-suctioned his lips from Sherlock’s glorious neck and sat back so that he was now resting on Sherlock’s thighs.

“Up,” he said, pulling Sherlock with him, “Up you get. Come on.”

Once John had Sherlock sitting up, from his position straddling Sherlock’s lap, his knees resting on either side of Sherlock’s thighs, he was able to easily divest Sherlock of his t-shirt. Sherlock lifted his arms obediently and looked up at John with comically wide eyes as the t-shirt pulled over his face and then mussed his curls as it was pulled off. Sherlock, it seemed, was rather confident when sex was only a matter of simply touching the other person without giving over anything of yourself, but he was shockingly vulnerable like this, naked and open, and waiting for John to make the next move.

John kissed his upturned face, his lips, his cheekbones, the corners of his eyes. 

“How far do you want to take this?” John whispered close to Sherlock’s ear, then kissed the soft skin below it. 

Sherlock just said, “John.” His eyes were still closed, his larger hands resting now on John’s naked hips. 

“Do you want to fuck?” asked John, still in that soft voice. And because he couldn’t resist, he kissed Sherlock on the lips again, softly and gently. When he pulled away again, Sherlock nodded, having trouble finding his voice.

“Penetrative sex?” said John, teasing him, and Sherlock’s head fell down to John’s shoulder, as if it were all suddenly too much to bear. 

“Yes. Yes, John. That. Please.” John kissed the top of his curly head while Sherlock breathed into his neck. 

“Condoms? Lube?” asked John.

Sherlock shook his head. 

John kissed him again, a soft peck, and slid across the sheets to dig around in his bedside table, where he found what he’d been looking for: a half-used tube that John had purchased a couple of months before. 

John reclaimed his place on Sherlock’s lap, and Sherlock immediately folded himself around John, planting tentative kisses along the skin above his breastbone, and the base of his throat. 

With not a little trepidation, John cleared his throat. “Hey, what we do next depends on your answer here, yeah? So be honest, because I’m not leaving this bed again.”

“Ever?” said Sherlock.

John nipped his shoulder, and Sherlock yelped.

“I’m serious, now,” said John. “I know you haven’t had sex, but STIs are still something we should discuss. I was tested two months ago after I broke up with—”

“—whatshername,” mumbled Sherlock.

“—Jeanette,” finished John, without a pause. “I’m clean and haven’t been with anyone since. Were you tested after, you know?”

Sherlock met his eyes now. 

“Yes, John.”

John stared back, and smiled. Sherlock smiled back, a little slyly this time. 

“Right,” said John. “Hold out your hand.”

Sherlock did, and was surprised when John squeezed a fair amount of lube onto it. John was on his knees now.

“This way, it’ll be a first for both of us,” he said, guiding Sherlock’s hand to his anus. “One finger first.”

Sherlock looked genuinely confused. “But, I thought you would want . . . the other way around?”

“Oh, I do want that, very much, yeah, but you’re ready now,” said John, looking down at the bulge that was tenting the front of Sherlock’s pyjama bottoms. John’s own cock had plumped back up slightly at just the thought of being fucked by Sherlock, but it was nowhere near hard yet, and wouldn’t be soon enough for either of their liking. Besides, this felt right to him. They would each be vulnerable in their own way. 

“Oh, shit, hold on a second,” said John, climbing off Sherlock’s lap. “Lay down,” he said, pushing Sherlock back onto the bed, making sure the detective’s lube-covered hand didn’t touch the sheets. 

“Almost forgot,” said John, easing Sherlock’s pajama bottoms down and off his long legs. Sherlock was now completely naked below him, his skin still glowing in the dim light, his cock hard and already weeping pre-come against his belly. John let in a ragged breath and moved so that Sherlock’s hand could easily reach him. He tucked his cold toes under Sherlock’s thighs.

“Do you know what to do?” asked John.

“Yes,” said Sherlock, his other hand moving to caress John’s thigh, though his voice trembled, just a little. And then John guided his hand back. He shivered and fought not to pull away as Sherlock’s index finger covered in cold lube brushed against him. Sherlock’s eyes never left his as his finger circled John’s tight opening, coaxing it to relax enough that Sherlock’s absurdly long finger could slip inside. 

The sensation was not unpleasant, but John had to fight not to squirm while he adjusted.

“John?” asked Sherlock, stopping the movement. 

“Keep going, it’s fine,” said John. 

Sherlock did, working his finger steadily in and out of John, who felt slick and warm. 

“Two fingers now,” said John when the slight burn turned to pleasure, and Sherlock complied, his free hand digging its fingers into John’s leg and giving away just how nervous he was. 

“Hey,” said John, leaning over for a soft kiss, and the angle moved Sherlock’s fingers to just the right spot. John’s vision burst into stars.

“Oh, Jesus Christ, fuck,” exclaimed John, “Right there. Shit.”

At John’s evident pleasure, Sherlock seemed to gain confidence. John tried to keep his eyes open as Sherlock’s fingers worked him open, brushing his prostate every now and then. John’s cock was half-hard now, and Sherlock’s eyes were vivid below him, fascinated by the reactions he was pulling from John. He looked as though he was discovering how to play some new type of sexy violin.

They made it to three fingers, and now both of them were breathing hard. They just looked at each other as the sounds of Sherlock preparing John faded into the background. 

“John?” said Sherlock. “Can I fuck you now?”

“Yeah,” said John, “yeah, do it.”

Sherlock pulled his fingers out and John squeezed more lube onto his hand. Sherlock coated his prick with the fresh lube, wincing at the cold. 

John couldn’t help laughing. “Revenge,” he said, and then yelped when Sherlock pinched his bum.

“Up on your knees, I think, and forward a little,” said Sherlock, guiding John’s hips where he wanted them.

“All right, but let me do it, okay?”

He leaned down for another soft kiss then sat up, grasping Sherlock’s prick in his hand and guiding it to his entrance. He felt as the crown breached the first sphincter and he tightened by reflex. Sherlock was whimpering a little, squirming, obviously fighting to hold himself still while John took his time. John knew that feeling, the need to move, to thrust, to claim. 

“Soon, love,” said John, clasping Sherlock’s hand where it still lay on his thigh.

A little breathless, Sherlock said, ”Try bearing down.”

John did and it helped, and slowly, slowly Sherlock eased all the way in. 

The feeling was indescribable. Not pleasant, exactly, just so full. He paused when he was sank all the way and gazed down at Sherlock, whose eyes had gone half-lidded in bliss. He swore he could feel Sherlock’s heartbeat as they sat there. It was peaceful waiting for John’s body to adjust, watching Sherlock’s face as he learned the feel of being inside of another person for the first time. 

“I’m going to try moving now,” said John, lifting himself slightly, as Sherlock only hummed in agreement. He gasped as John pulled up, and then pushed back down, the new sensations nearly overwhelmed both of them. 

“Oh, fuck,” said John, as Sherlock uttered simultaneously multitudes of Johns: ”John, John, John, John.”

The rhythm they found together was slow but steady. John did most of the moving at first, trying out new angles, finding what felt good, and how hard, and how fast. Sherlock’s hands clutched John’s hips for dear life, and John was thankful his fingernails were so short. 

“John,” said Sherlock, “I’m not going to last much longer, I need to move.” 

“Do it,” said John, and Sherlock rolled them over so that John was on his back. He slid so that his thighs were cradling John’s bum, and John’s legs automatically moved to wrap around his waist. Sherlock fucked into him with intention, leveraging John up until he hit just the right spot . . .

“Fuck!” shouted John, as Sherlock hit his prostate, “Right there, love, oh fuck, fuck, fuck.” 

Sherlock’s soft, warm belly provided just enough friction to John’s recovered erection . . . he groaned out his second orgasm of the night as Sherlock’s hips started to falter in imminent release.

“Let go,” said John, his limbs heavy.

Sherlock buried his face in John’s neck as he came, his cries muffled into the warmth of John’s skin. John felt the release as it happened, and that was new. The hot wetness of it, and the intimacy of Sherlock’s lanky body collapsed on his, his heart about to pound out of his chest from the exertion. 

After a bit, Sherlock finally seemed to catch his breath.

“That was . . . good,” he said, both of them wincing slightly as he pulled out. 

“Extremely,” agreed John, leaning his head against Sherlock’s. 

There was another peaceful silence.

“When can we do it again?” asked Sherlock.

“You maniac,” said John. “Give us a break! I’m not twenty-five anymore.”

“You’re not thirty-five anymore, either,” said Sherlock, and John didn’t have the energy to smack him.

“Sherlock, just so you know, this thing, us, whatever us is right now, I’m, er, I'm in,” said John, rather awkwardly. He felt Sherlock lightly kiss the place where his neck met his shoulder. 

“Good,” said Sherlock, and held John close. There was peaceful silence for a time.

“You know,” said Sherlock, “I do have some more Viagra that could probably help with your refractory problem . . .”

This time John did smack him, right on his luscious arse. And then they kissed until they fell asleep.


End file.
